


In Case of Watermelons

by radioshack84



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Gen, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sick Sherlock, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 07:45:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13519692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radioshack84/pseuds/radioshack84
Summary: Sherlock won’t admit to John that he’s experiencing something as human as unpleasant side effects from being drugged, so he sends him odd text messages instead.  The result is quite unexpected.  Missing scenes from A Scandal in Belgravia.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Written for enjoyment, not money.

“I’ll be next door if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock slurred, already falling back deep into the haze of sleep by the time John’s answer preceded the soft sound of the bedroom door closing.

“No reason at all.”

The detective had been out for scarcely a second, perhaps a minute at most, when an unusual noise broke through the silence. It was a sensual sound, nondescript but distinctly female, familiar yet foreign. Sitting up, Sherlock squinted in confusion in its direction and presently identified a dark shape hanging on the back of his door as his coat. He frowned. Certainly he’d not hung it there. He never hung it there. That could only mean that The Woman _had_ been in the flat, and without John’s knowledge. Intrigued and somewhat disturbed, Sherlock disengaged himself from the bedsheets and wobbled across to the door, noticing a glow from within the coat’s pocket. His phone. Likely also the source of the sound he’d heard. Fishing the device from the depths of the garment, he studied the screen.

“Till the next time, Mr. Holmes.”

The text message blurred and shifted with his wavering vision, but Sherlock regarded it thoughtfully, his back braced against the doorframe for support. Eyes glancing warily from the phone, out to the surrounding room, and back again to the phone, he made the mistake of simultaneously pushing away from the wall. Gravity pulled, his legs wavered, and he staggered clumsily toward the window. His right shoulder collided hard with the sill, and the sudden pain caused him to overcorrect in altering his course until he lost his footing completely and came to lay sprawled in the middle of the floor. Blinking, he focused again on the text, his shoulder throbbed, and he thought vaguely about sleep, but the floor wasn’t a great place for that. He thought about sitting up, too -- sitting was better on floors -- but not when the floor constantly changed its mind about whether it was actually the floor, or the ceiling, or the wall, or some incoherent combination of the three. With a groan, Sherlock stayed where he was, thumbs working at his phone.

Through the wall he heard the expected ping, followed several seconds after by footsteps. The door opened behind him. “What’s this about water -- Sherlock!”

Wincing at the volume of John’s worried voice and again at the sudden contact of a hand on his abused shoulder as John stooped beside him, Sherlock turned a half-frown on his flatmate. “My hearing is not damaged, John. Kindly keep it that way and refrain from shouting, hm?”

Watson scowled back. “Right, I’ll try to contain my concern next time I unexpectedly find you collapsed on the floor.”

“Very good.”

John rolled his eyes. “Um...why _are_ you back on the floor? I thought you were going to sleep.”

“I was -- I _am_. I thought Lestrade should know first, though.”

“About the watermelon,” John said doubtfully.

“Watermelon? What has a watermelon got to do with anything?” Sherlock scoffed.

John had often found his conversations with the detective to be non-linear, but he was quickly discovering the detriment pharmaceuticals posed to that particular problem. “Your text, Sherlock. ‘Tell Lestrade to check the watermelon,’” he quoted, holding up his phone.

Sherlock squinted at his own phone for a moment, then gave up. “Ridiculous. Obviously it’s that spell-correction menace again.”

“Well then what did you intend? And why not text the detective inspector directly?”

“Why do when you’re here?” Sherlock said as if it were a given that John should be his personal text-dictation service at all times.

Watson tipped his head to one side, a bit discomfited by the near-truth in that.

“My intent,” Sherlock went on, “was that Lestrade be informed that the object that killed the hiker could be found in the water -- or, most probably, stuck in the reeds half a kilometer downstream from the scene of said hiker’s death, thereby disproving murder.”

“You do realize that you gave the police that exact information hours ago, Sherlock?”

“I did?”

“You did, and the boomerang was recovered after a bit of searching.”

“Oh. Well, in that case I’ll be going to sleep. Sorry to disturb you.” He shifted a bit, getting comfortable, and then lay still.

“Sherlock, you can’t sleep down here,” John said, exasperated. “Come on.” He patted the other man on the shoulder to get his attention and was startled when the detective gasped and flinched away. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re a doctor, I’m sure you can recognize an expression of pain when you see one,” Sherlock ground out. “As to the cause, I presume it has something to do with my shoulder having been stabbed, whipped, and fallen on today.”

“Whipped?” Watson raised an eyebrow.

Sherlock looked resolutely away. 

“Never mind. Let’s get you off the floor and I’ll have a look.”

“It’s fine.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

“I don’t care.”

“Me either. You’re bleeding,” Watson said, indicating a dark, damp splotch surrounding a small tear on Sherlock’s sleeve. Thankfully, the revelation seemed to stay further argument and John was able to hoist the detective to his feet and deposit him on his bed for the second time that day. Making sure he was steady enough to sit, Watson stepped into the bathroom. When he returned a few moments later, first aid kit in hand, Sherlock was studying his battered shoulder with interest, having discarded his shirt.

John joined him on the edge of the bed, quickly noting the expected puncture wound as well as three distinct lash marks, one of which had left a seven-centimeter split in the skin directly over the puncture. There was too much bruising to identify a point of impact from Sherlock’s recent fall, but if John had to guess he’d put that right over the worst of the damage as well. It would explain the renewed bleeding. “That wasn’t a standard hypodermic she got you with, despite the look of the syringe I found at the scene,” he commented.

“A dart of some sort, I think,” Sherlock agreed, wincing as John carefully probed the area around the laceration. “Or an ice pick, perhaps.”

“Fitting, given her personality.” They shared a wry grin, but Watson sobered, continuing his examination. “I need to clean this up a bit. You shouldn’t need stitches, but heaven knows where that whip of hers has been.”

“Heaven and four-thousand-odd followers on Twitter,” Sherlock muttered.

“Sorry?”

The younger man shook his head, closing his eyes against another episode of vertigo as the floor became the wall again.

“Sherlock!”

Sitting straight with a start, the detective glared at Watson. “ _Again_ with the shouting.”

“Easier than picking you off the floor,” John said with a shrug, taking his hands away from where he’d been poised to stop his flatmate’s forward list. “In fact, just lie down. This is going to take a moment and you look like you’re thinking of passing out again any second now.”

“I’m thinking nothing of the sort,” Sherlock said, but gingerly rotated his body until he allowed that he had a greater probability of ending up on the bed than the floor if he let gravity take him. John’s guiding grip on his elbow indicated that he’d miscalculated, or perhaps that the good doctor was just a chronic worrier. Well, that much he’d already known.

Distantly, he heard the snap of John’s medical gloves going on, and then rubbery fingers gently gripped his bicep, adjusting the position of his arm. He let out an involuntary yelp when a firmer touch sent fire shooting through his shoulder.

“Sorry,” John apologized.

“What are you _doing_?” Sherlock demanded breathlessly.

“Did you actually see the dart when you pulled it out?”

“I...don’t remember. Why?” Sherlock craned his neck to frown at John, who was intently focused on the wound. The doctor made a face and looked up.

“I think it’s still in your arm...at least part of it. I can see it just beneath your skin. You may have driven it in deeper when you fell.”

“Brilliant,” Sherlock muttered.

“It will only take a second to pull it out, but I can give you some lidocaine if you want.”

“I’ve had quite enough drugs today, thank you.”

Unable to argue with that, John nodded and reached for the tweezers in the kit. “Ready, then?” he asked.

“Yes.” Despite the affirmative response, Sherlock still tensed when the cold metal penetrated his skin and the pain increased tenfold. He felt his heart rate spike and flinched as the tweezers found their mark.

“I’ve nearly got it.”

The detective drew in a slow breath, focusing on John’s left hand resting gently on an uninjured part of his shoulder, and tried not to think about what the other was doing just a bit lower. Finally, Watson made a sound of triumph and the dart was out, but he didn’t have much chance to enjoy it before John was swabbing disinfectant over the area, setting it ablaze once again. Sherlock hissed and twenty nearly-undetectable methods of murder popped through his mind unbidden, before John applied some sort of soothing gel over the butterfly strips he’d used to close the laceration from the whip. The reduction in pain was almost instantaneous and the tension in Sherlock’s body slowly evaporated. His head was swimming and he was only minutely aware of John helping him under the covers and applying ice to his shoulder. After that there was nothing, nothing at all, until he woke up screaming.


	2. Chapter 2

Had Sherlock not had a desert-dry throat courtesy of Irene Adler’s concoction, he’d have undoubtedly woken half of Baker Street with his shouts. As it was, only a hoarse cry managed to escape before he was conscious enough to stop it, but he was still shaken, and shak _ing_ , from the remnants of a horrific dream. He pushed himself upright in bed, panting, his eyes darting frantically about the darkened room.

Moriarty. He’d been there, with The Woman, watching him. Watching him sleep after bringing him as near to drowning as possible in the swimming pool, fishing him out, and then blowing up the vest with him inside it. He was aware that that made no sense, but it didn’t seem to matter to his racing heart or his labored respiration. Sherlock hugged his knees to his chest, panted harder, and grabbed his phone off the nightstand. Not even looking at it -- his eyes were fixed on the shadow of the dresser across the room -- Sherlock’s fingers worked the keyboard and hit send. He was still staring minutes later when his bedroom door swung open, casting a beam of light across the floor from the hallway.

“Watermelon arteries,” John said.

Sherlock’s eyes cut over to him for just a moment -- pajamas, hair unkempt, eyes squinting. Tone of voice: annoyed. Phone clenched in hand. Conclusion: woken from deep sleep by text alert and not pleased about it. The dresser drew Sherlock’s attention back to it and he immediately lost the miniscule bit of calm John’s presence had afforded him.

“Watermelon arteries,” John repeated, stepping further into the room. “Honestly, Sherlock. I’ve a notion to pass that one on to Lestrade right now via your mobile and see what _his_ reaction is to being woken at one-thirty in the morning.”

“Not for...Lestrade,” Sherlock managed after a moment. “Mor--” His voice wouldn’t work right and he swallowed, trying again. “Moriarty was…”

“Sherlock?”

It was curious how John’s voice could go from irritated to concerned so quickly, Sherlock thought, as the lamp switched on next to him. Curious, but appreciated, since he couldn’t quite seem to catch his breath and that would have made arguing with John over appropriate text messaging etiquette considerably more difficult.

“Sherlock, you’re shaking like a leaf.”

He was. How ridiculous. He drew in a deep breath, seeking to calm his nerves. It had only been a dream. Moriarty wasn’t there, hadn’t been there. He let the breath out again, but it caught somewhere near his throat and he started coughing. Presently, he found that he couldn’t stop and dark spots began to dance before his vision, like they had in the pool.

John looked on in some confusion. He’d been well prepared to give Sherlock a piece of his mind after being woken by a text to find “Watermelon arteries. --SH” staring at him with “01:32” displayed above the message on the screen. He’d held onto that intention all the way to the detective’s bedroom, had actually started working himself up to a rant, when Sherlock’s response had stopped him. The strange, thin quality of the detective’s voice when he’d denied that the text was for Lestrade, and whatever comment he’d tried -- and failed -- to make afterward had set off every instinct John had that something was wrong.

“Sherlock?” Making his way over to the nightstand, John turned on the lamp, revealing the detective huddled against the headboard, knees drawn up to his chest. His face was stark white, his eyes distant, looking toward the dresser across the room as though he’d seen a ghost. “Sherlock, you’re shaking like a leaf.”

The detective didn’t answer, but did take in a shuddering breath. He began coughing, then gasping. His face went impossibly whiter.

“Bloody hell,” John muttered. Getting an arm behind the detective’s shoulders, he tried rocking him forward a bit. That got him nowhere, given Sherlock’s balled-up position, so he started tugging him toward the edge of the bed instead. “Breathe, mate. You’re all right,” he said, not sure which one of them he was trying to convince.

Fortunately, Sherlock wasn’t resistant to his efforts, and soon John had the trembling ball of consulting detective in a more manageable location. “I’m just going to straighten your legs out, Sherlock, try to ease your breathing,” John said, carefully prying the other man’s fingers from around his kneecaps and then nudging his ankles until Sherlock’s feet slid over the edge of the bed and he shuddered into a normal sitting position.

The detective took a slightly deeper breath and swayed dangerously, his eyes losing focus. John’s fingers had already sought out Sherlock’s pulse at his wrist, but now he put his other hand on the back of the detective’s neck and gently forced him to lean forward over his knees.

“John?” Sherlock rasped after a few moments, lifting his head slightly.

“Not yet,” John cautioned, firming his grip slightly until Sherlock’s mind caught up with the instruction. “Deep breaths. Slowly, in and out.”

Sherlock followed the advice, with difficulty at first, but soon John felt his racing pulse begin to normalize. His breathing grew quieter, too, and John finally helped him to sit up. Sherlock glanced sideways at him, but didn’t try to shrug off the steadying hand at his back, which was telling. “That must have been quite the dream,” Watson commented when another minute had gone by and Sherlock was still shaking slightly.

“Mmm.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“Already did.”

John shook his head. “Somehow I doubt a large fruit’s circulatory system would have you this worked up.” He held out his phone so Sherlock could see the text message.

The detective made a sound of disgust. “That was supposed to say ‘Water. Moriarty.’”

“Still not very descriptive,” John pointed out.

“Hmm. I suppose not.” Sherlock made to stand, but found that his knees were suddenly composed of a material disturbingly reminiscent of gelatin. John seemed to already know this, though, and prevented him from rising with a hand on his good shoulder.

“What do you need?”

“Water, oddly enough,” Sherlock said wearily.

“I’ll get it. Stay there, you’re still looking peaky.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but made no move to get up, so John took the glass from his nightstand and went to refill it in the bathroom. When he returned, the detective was again sitting against the headboard, contemplating the dresser. He accepted the glass with a nod and sipped its contents slowly.

“Well, I’ll just…” John gestured toward the door when it seemed that Sherlock wasn’t inclined to say anything further. He’d scarcely taken a step before the detective called him back, though.

“Before you go...” Sherlock said hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind checking the, um, dresser?”

“The dresser.”

Sherlock paused for even longer this time. “Each drawer. If it’s no trouble,” he finally said, his eyes darting briefly to meet John’s, then away.

Watson almost thought he saw a slight coloration of embarrassment appear across the other man’s cheekbones, although it could have just been that he was recovering from his fright. Choosing to ignore it, whichever it was, John moved over to the dresser and reached for the handle of the top drawer.

“ _Slowly_ ,” Sherlock insisted.

John obliged. Nothing appeared to be amiss inside, so he started to close the drawer.

“List the contents, if you wouldn’t mind.”

John glanced back at the detective, but the expression of great discomfort -- still bordering on fear -- was something he’d never before seen in Sherlock, so he refrained from commenting and studied the items in the drawer. “Socks, arranged by color and pattern,” he reported. At Sherlock’s nod, he slid that drawer fully closed and reached for the next. “More socks, white. Also t-shirts.” At the third drawer, he couldn’t help but give the detective an incredulous grin.

Sherlock just raised his eyebrows. “Contents, please.”

Watson shook his head. “Left side of divider: jars containing live insects. Right side of divider: teddy bears, various. Your mother must still have nightmares about cleaning your room.”

Sherlock frowned and motioned impatiently for John to keep going. “It’s an experiment, and doesn’t concern my mother.”

John opened the final drawer, glanced inside, and closed it. “Pajamas, more t-shirts.”

“You’re certain that’s all?”

John shrugged. “Unless you normally keep snakes next to your pajamas. What’s this about, Sherlock?”

“Moriarty,” the detective said with disdain. “The Woman, drowning, bombs…” he trailed off, shaking his head uncertainly, and continued to eye the piece of furniture with caution. “In my dream...he rigged this room to explode, just to make sure I was truly dead after all else he’d done. The trigger was there,” Sherlock finished darkly, nodding to the dresser, “cleverly disguised as a jumper.”

John noticed another shudder ripple through the wiry detective’s body, but this one was different. Pulling open the second drawer again, he retrieved a grey t-shirt. “Here, put this on. You’re freezing.”

Sherlock accepted the shirt, then spent much longer than normal trying to pull it on, his limbs still uncoordinated. “Do you want another ice pack for your shoulder?” John asked as the detective winced for the third time, but finally got his arm all the way through the sleeve.

“Yes, that would be a brilliant way to warm up, wouldn’t it?” Sherlock said, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Ibuprofen, then, or you’ll not be able to use that arm in the morning,” John decided, slipping into the bathroom again. He shook three tablets from the bottle and returned to the detective. “Here.”

Sherlock took the pills and swallowed them without comment, still staring at the dresser.

“He wasn’t here, Sherlock. There are no bombs. Plenty of bugs and bears, but no bombs.”

Sherlock snorted. “I know.”

“You should get some more sleep,” John suggested. Much to his surprise, Sherlock nodded and slid down further in bed, pulling the covers up to his neck. He shivered harder for a moment, then rolled onto his left side, curling up with his back to John, and settled.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Not so far,” was the mumbled response.

Shaking his head, Watson switched off the lamp and left the detective to rest.

Sherlock listened to the door latch click into place and waited until John’s footsteps retreated before he reached over and switched the lamp back on. Casting a final wary glance at the dresser, he attempted to take John’s advice. His sleep was restless, though, and he couldn’t ignore the feeling that someone was watching him when he closed his eyes, which caused him to startle awake at random. He did so four or five times before exhaustion finally got the better of him and he sank gratefully into the darkness.

The next time he surfaced, he wasn’t sure what had woken him, but he frowned in annoyance at the interruption and rolled over to check the time on his phone. His stomach rolled with him. Sherlock grimaced. His digestion never had responded particularly well to stress, and the day hadn’t been the most relaxing, even when not taking into account nightmares and resulting insomnia. Swallowing back acid, he lay still for a minute or two, waiting to see if the queasy feeling would pass as he lamented the fact that only 40 minutes had gone by since John had bid him good night. Unfair. Even worse, his stomach flipped a second time, rather more alarmingly than before, driving him out from under the covers. Sherlock mentally revised his earlier comment to John regarding the quality of the evening. _Not so far_ had just turned into _not at all_. 

He stumbled into the nightstand, knocking over his glass of water, then into the doorframe, and barely made it into the bathroom before the nausea overwhelmed him. Dropping to his knees in front of the toilet, he vaguely recalled The Woman saying something to John about a risk of choking on vomit. Well, he would just have to prove her wrong. He had no intention of choking.

Some time later he had every intention of passing out, though. The vomiting would not _stop_. There was nothing left inside him. He would have doubted that even his stomach remained in its proper place were it not for the dreadful queasiness and muscle spasms that continued to course through his abdomen.

Slumping against the cabinets in a controlled fall, Sherlock grappled on the floor for where he’d dropped his phone and very deliberately composed a text. He had just enough time to re-read it twice and hit send before he was back on his knees.


	3. Chapter 3

John’s phone pinged quietly, casting a small sphere of light innocently on the nightstand. He groaned and forced one eye open. It had been 01:30 the last time, and it was still pitch dark outside, so whatever hour it was now was beyond indecent. Sleep beckoned strongly, tempting him to ignore the text, and he might have done if not for the mental images that assailed him of Sherlock collapsed on the floor and hyperventilating whilst staring at his bedroom furniture. There was also the fact that the man _had_ recently been injured and drugged into unconsciousness with an unknown substance. It would be irresponsible of him not to keep an eye on his flatmate after all of that, even if he weren’t a doctor. That rationale had John reaching for his phone. “Watermelon. --SH” had him fully awake and running for the stairs.

The unmistakable sound of retching emanated from the bathroom as he neared the bottom of the staircase, and John didn’t bother knocking, just made a bit of extra noise ahead of laying his hand on Sherlock’s back so as not to startle the man. Dampness greeted his touch. The detective’s shirt was soaked in sweat and minute tremors shook his body beneath the more forceful spasms of his illness.

“Sherlock?” John asked tentatively when the dry heaving had given way to panting. The detective moaned in response and tried to sit back from the toilet, or at least that’s what John guessed he was trying to do. In actuality, he just sort of slid sideways. The doctor lunged forward, grabbing him before he could knock his head on something. “Easy, I’ve got you. Sit here if you can.” Watson carefully maneuvered the sick man so he could lean against the wall. Almost as soon as his bum hit the floor, though, Sherlock’s eyes opened wide in alarm and he tried to lever himself back up.

Snatching the bin from beneath the sink, John pushed it into Sherlock’s hands and leaned against the counter to wait, watching his flatmate with concern. “How long have you been at this?” he asked as the latest spell waned. Sherlock’s face was an unnatural shade of grey, far surpassing his post-nightmare pallor, and he clutched his stomach tightly with one hand, pain evident in his eyes. He didn’t answer the question, either, his head lolling back against the wall. John soaked a cloth with cool water and stooped down to mop the perspiration from his face and neck. “Sherlock, are you with me?”

The detective grimaced and nodded once, seeming to come back to himself a little as John gently smoothed the dark curls out of his eyes. “Can’t stop...John. Thirty...thirty-two minutes... _straight_...when I texted you,” he rasped, his voice not much more than a whisper.

John tsk-ed. Even without the five or so minutes he’d witnessed that was too long. “I’ve got something upstairs that will help,” he said, preparing to stand.

“ _Don’t…_ ”

The desperately-spoken word was cut off by further retching and John settled back next to Sherlock with a sigh, helping him hold the bin with one hand while rubbing slow circles on his back with the other. “This needs to stop, mate. You’re exhausted. You need medicine. I can't do anything more for you without my bag.”

Several more seconds passed by, and John was unsure if Sherlock had even heard him. The detective was so weak that he’d given up altogether on trying to hold the bin, and John was growing increasingly worried that he was going to simply pass out. Finally, though, the spasms wracking his thin frame relented and Sherlock slumped in momentary relief, breathing heavily, “Go...now.”

“Right. Be right back.” John took a moment to ease the ailing detective against the wall again, set the bin in his lap, and then sprinted from the room. Taking the stairs two at a time, he skidded into his darkened bedroom and fumbled with the lamp on the dresser. Even with light it took him several seconds to locate his medical bag, as he’d for some reason seen fit to leave it underneath a jacket and the pile of laundry he’d done that evening while waiting for Sherlock to come to. Snatching up the bag, John hurried toward the stairs again, trailing a few socks behind him. When he made it back to Sherlock, he was unsure if the detective had been sick again or if he was just hugging the bin as a precaution, but either way John was bloody glad that Irene Adler had deigned to warn him of this eventuality. He suspected that even she hadn’t thought her drug would cause such a reaction, though. Trust Sherlock to do nothing by halves.

“John?”

“I’m here, Sherlock. How’re you doing?” he asked, crouching next to the detective and shoving aside various items in his bag, searching for the vial of anti-nausea medication he’d borrowed from the paramedics who Sherlock had groggily refused to allow near him at the scene.

“Not good...I think I’m--” his voice cut off and he made a gagging sound, clutching the bin tighter against his chest.

“Hang on just a minute longer...” John found a sterile syringe and drew up the necessary dosage. Flicking it clear of air, he grabbed an alcohol wipe and pushed up the sleeve of the detective’s t-shirt.

Sherlock stilled in surprise as John swabbed a patch of skin near his shoulder, but gave no other reaction as the injection was administered. When the doctor gripped his arm again to press a band-aid in place, though, he flinched.

“Take it easy,” John murmured. “No more jabs. I'm just going to check you over.”

“M’fine,” Sherlock mumbled.

“No, you’re really not.”

Sherlock slowly turned his head to glare at the doctor, but the expression quickly crumpled to one of discomfort. “John, my stomach hurts.”

“No kidding,” John answered dryly, but gave Sherlock a sympathetic smile. “Just rest for a few minutes while I make sure you’re not having a more serious reaction to Irene Adler’s drug of choice, yeah?” He reached again for Sherlock’s arm and this time the detective didn’t protest. John lightly pressed his fingers against the clammy wrist, noting Sherlock’s pulse, before wrapping a blood pressure cuff around his upper arm. Both readings were within the range of normal, taking into consideration how the man had spent the last half hour, but John laid his stethoscope against Sherlock’s chest and listened to his heartbeat and breathing nevertheless. Satisfied that his flatmate’s only adverse symptom was a severely upset stomach, he sat back and began re-packing his kit.

“Sherlock?”

“Mmm?” The detective blinked owlishly at him.

“Will you be all right here for a minute?”

“Mmm.” His eyes slid closed again.

“Sherlock. Actual words would be nice.”

“As would medication that works,” Sherlock sighed, wincing and resting his hand gingerly over his middle.

“Still nauseous?” John frowned at Sherlock’s affirmative nod. “Well, you haven’t vomited in the last ten minutes, which seems to be a bit of a record for you. Lying down might help, too. I’m going to find you a change of clothes and then we’ll see about getting you back to bed.”

“Why?”

John stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Why what?”

“I’m wearing clothes. I’ve slept on this floor many times. What you suggest is therefore pointless.”

“Pointless...Sherlock, you’re ill. As we discussed earlier, you are _not_ sleeping on the floor. I’ll be right back.”

Sherlock frowned slightly, bemused by the sudden annoyance in John’s voice. Had he said something wrong? He’d only stated facts, and his tone hadn’t been rude or sarcastic. Through blurred vision, he watched John’s retreat, and willed his terribly jumbled thought process to un-jumble itself. Curse The Woman and her drugs. Something was wrong, and John’s present exasperation was only the latest symptom. Sherlock had been going over all of the strange and unnerving events that had occurred that day, arranging some of them for storage in his mind palace and deleting others. Taken as a whole, though, John’s behavior was the only oddity that continued to bother him. 

The doctor was usually predictable in mood and action. Not so today. Physical violence, for example: John had punched him in the face at his own request, then proceeded in a slightly-more-than-half-hearted attempt to strangle him ( _not_ part of said request). Later, in the wake of his drugging, John had offered his assistance should it be required and then had responded with marked irritation when Sherlock had taken him up on his offer via multiple text messages. Granted, at first he’d tried to conceal the fact that the messages were requests for assistance, as he’d been quite annoyed over how easily his body had betrayed him. John had caught on quickly enough, though, which had brought about the third oddity: John’s immediate reversal from irritation to concern when he’d realized the truth.

The reversal was expected, just not the extent of the concern. Sherlock had sustained a minor injury to his shoulder, suffered a moment of panic due to a nightmare, and vomited in delayed reaction to the drugs in his system. At most those infirmities may have warranted, respectively, John bandaging him up, rolling his eyes and telling him how silly he was acting, and administering anti-nausea medication since it happened to be available. Under no circumstance was his condition worrisome enough for John to have been awake half the night bringing him ice packs, humoring his request to search furniture for bombs, and looking after him whilst he resurrected last year’s Christmas dinner. Then again, John _was_ a doctor. They were known to worry too much about everything.

That had to be it, then: John hadn’t fulfilled his weekly quota of worrying at the surgery, and now Sherlock was the recipient of the surplus.

_Wrong!_

Sherlock twisted his fingers into his hair. His mind would not accept that explanation. He was missing something, but he was nearly too tired to think and John’s concern was making him uncomfortable...like the shirt stuck to his skin, cold and making him shiver. Like the rumpled fabric of his trousers, chafing against his legs. He needed to get up from the floor and straighten his clothes. John wouldn’t let him sleep there anyway, apparently, and moving was going to take longer than normal. Maybe by the time John came back he would have made it to standing. Slowly, very slowly, he began to unfold his limbs. 

_Focus!_ his mind ordered. Right. John. John and his concern. Why was it strange?

Perhaps because no one expressed concern toward him. Concern over his mental state, of course, almost daily, but never for _him_. Mycroft occasionally badgered him to eat when one of his spies found out that he hadn’t been, but Sherlock didn’t think that really counted. What made this different?

He’d reached his knees and paused for a moment, combating the nausea with deep breathing, before reaching for the tub edge to brace himself up. John was still here, that was one difference. Sherlock had gone through many flatmates, some only staying a matter of hours. Most had barely been civil toward him. None apart from John had conversed with him willingly, or accompanied him to crime scenes, or occasionally made him tea. 

Sherlock’s arms shook as they slowly guided him upward with the help of the tub. The facts were all there and were doing their best to point him toward the correct conclusion, all except for John’s eagerness to strangle him and his contradictory concern. Sherlock pondered this with the exhausted shadow of his great mind, barely held upright on trembling legs by the bathroom wall in the flat that he shared with his friend. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. _Friend?_ The word barreled into him with a weight that his tenuous equilibrium could not sustain and the gently-spinning room suddenly tilted sharply. He compensated out of instinct, taking a step, and felt his back lose contact with the wall, which was okay because the wall was trying to be the floor. His knees wobbled, but he tried for another step anyway…

“Nope, not happening. Down you go.”

“John?” Stupid -- of course it was John. No one else would be in their bathroom in the middle of the night, guiding his traitorous body to sit on the edge of the tub before he could fall. No one else would be willing (or allowed) to peel the disgusting cold t-shirt away from his skin and help him into a dry one that still smelled of laundry detergent.

“Sherlock.”

John’s voice, talking to him. He blinked up at the doctor, who was looking worried again. Still. Whatever.

“You okay?”

“Of course, why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock said, but his voice sounded strange, tired. Apparently his body wasn’t done with that bit, then. Dull.

John raised an eyebrow at him. “You’re kidding, right? You were in the process of collapsing when I came back, and you just let me dress you without a word.”

“Your point being?” Sherlock asked irritably, annoyed when his annoyed tone was tempered by a large yawn.

“You need to sleep,” John said seriously, handing Sherlock a pair of pajama pants. “Shall I help you with those or can you manage?”

Apparently he sat staring at the tartan flannel for a bit too long, because John took the clothing back and slowly hauled him to his feet, holding onto his elbow as he clumsily stepped out of his trousers and, with some difficulty, into the pajamas. The wall was back to being a wall so he leaned against it and closed his eyes.

“No, Sherlock, c’mon. Bed, now.” John kept his guiding hold on the detective’s arm as he tugged him away from the wall and steered him carefully toward the door. Sherlock had his other arm pressed tightly to his abdomen and he wasn’t watching where he was going at all.

“Is it possible for one’s stomach to literally tie itself in knots?” the detective mumbled, narrowly avoiding the doorframe. “I always thought that was just an expression.”

“It is. Just an expression. You’re bound to have some soreness for a day or two after a bout like that, but the cramping should subside shortly.” Glancing at the discomfort on the other man’s face, though, John slowed his pace further, matching Sherlock’s pained progress. 

Eventually they made it to the bed and Sherlock curled slowly onto his side. Shaky and spent, he lay perfectly still, but his half-closed eyes watched John with curiosity. He was behaving oddly again. Rather than returning to the sitting room, or to the sleep he’d been woken from twice now, John was tidying up, of all things. Efficient but unhurried, he retrieved the spilt water glass from the floor, mopped up the liquid left behind, straightened the blankets that Sherlock had no energy to reach for (let alone untangle), and drew them up to his shoulders.

Finished smoothing the covers, John’s hand rested briefly on his thigh and Sherlock felt a strange warmth spread through him that he couldn’t explain. He of course tried, and concluded that the warm feeling was a result of the blankets that now blocked the chill of the room and most certainly _not_ a sentimental response to John’s ministrations.

Given the relative uncertainty that had been plaguing him that evening, though, he thought it best to be sure. Shifting a bit, he hugged the blankets closer and groaned more pathetically than he’d intended when a particularly vicious cramp stabbed through his abdomen in protest to the motion. Breathing through the spasm (which took far too long to subside), Sherlock waited. Rather than coming over to see what had prompted his groan, though, John’s footsteps retreated from the room. Something akin to loss stabbed at him then, but Sherlock resisted calling John back. Sometimes testing a hypothesis required discipline, even in the face of possible disappointment at the outcome. 

Presently, he heard rummaging in the bathroom. John hadn’t left, then. Sherlock’s relief at this was short-lived, interrupted by another spasm, and he momentarily forgot the experiment, his focus tunneling down to the ongoing search in the bathroom, John’s frustrated mumbling, anything to distract.

At length, John located whatever he’d been after and came back. Sherlock heard a quiet _plunk_ near his head -- the empty bin being placed on the floor. A smaller _plunk_ sounded on the nightstand -- fresh glass of water. Silence followed. John was studying him, no doubt: realizing he wasn’t asleep, looking for the reason, frowning in concern as his medical training revealed it to him in tense features and clenched jaw…

“Sherlock, here, this should help with the pain,” John’s voice was quiet, calm, with just a trace of sympathy. Sherlock didn’t like it. He didn’t mind it, either -- didn’t shrug off the comforting hand on his shoulder, because it was working. The warm feeling was back. Was this the effect of friendship? Ridiculous. Not bad, surprisingly, just...ridiculous. Hypothesis disproved.

John sat down on the edge of the bed then, and Sherlock made a small sound of protest as the doctor grasped his wrist and tugged the blankets away from him. Before he could open his eyes and argue what he thought was another pulse check (unnecessary, as he was clearly and quite regrettably alive) John had tucked something wonderfully warm and just slightly heavy against his stomach. _Hot water bottle_ , his mind supplied dreamily, and he absolutely _didn’t_ sigh in contentment. Or maybe he did. John chuckled, letting go of his arm, and draped the covers back over him. “Told you.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you’re right for once. I’m confident you won’t make a habit of it.”

“Of course not,” John said dryly. “Are you feeling any better, muscle spasms notwithstanding?”

“There is a slim possibility that I won’t need the bin again if I don’t move for the next week.”

“A few hours at most, I’d think. You just need a bit of sleep. Try some water when you feel like you can, too. It’ll help to flush out the drug faster.”

Sherlock grimaced at the thought of putting _anything_ in his stomach _ever_ again, but nodded slightly as John stood to go.

“Get some rest. I’ll be in the sitting room if you need me.”

“Why would I need you?” Sherlock mumbled in that same drowsy, dismissive tone he’d used earlier that evening, but John didn’t miss the hint of a smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“In case of watermelons,” he replied, and managed to hide his own grin until he’d reached the hallway and quietly closed the door behind him. “Prat,” he muttered fondly, heading for the kitchen to put the kettle on.


End file.
